


The Ovidion Chamber

by theprydonian_archivist



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2010-01-02
Packaged: 2018-07-15 00:53:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7198817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprydonian_archivist/pseuds/theprydonian_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master has a special prison for the Doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ovidion Chamber

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Prydonian](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Prydonian). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [The Prydonian collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/theprydonian/profile).

The Doctor paced the floor of his lightless prison, trying to work out its dimensions. His hand slid along the wall and felt for any fixture, any crevice, any crack that might provide him an escape opportunity. There was nothing. The walls were as smooth as glass, and the cell seemed to go on forever. The Doctor frowned and then smiled in the darkness.

"An Ovidion chamber! Oh, that's very clever, just brilliant."

There was no immediate response. No doubt the Master was watching and listening, but he had chosen to remain silent for the time being. The Doctor laughed a little and went on feeling the walls. Ovidion chambers were notoriously difficult to escape from. They were a Time Lord invention, psychically maintained, the dimensions and features determined entirely by the will of the person holding the prisoner. If that person chose, the cell could be tiny, with only enough room to stand. Or it could be immense. The light levels, whether there were any doors or windows, all of it could change according to the jailer's wishes. The Doctor put his hands on the walls and felt a low hum. He closed his eyes, though he didn't need to, and absorbed the sound through his fingers and palms. 

A door opened a few feet away, and a figure appeared, a dark silhouette on a painfully bright background. The Doctor shielded his eyes with one hand, squinting, and then the door closed. The walls of the chamber brightened gradually until the Master's form was just visible. Instinctively the Doctor reached for his sonic screwdriver, but of course, the Master had confiscated it.

"Oh please," the Master sneered. In the dimness it was impossible to discern his expression, but the Doctor had seen it many times before. "You know you can't escape from this."

"Oh, probably. Unless I made it impossible for you to psychically maintain this place."

The Master laughed. "And just how would you do that, Doctor? A bit of hand-to-hand combat, perhaps? You always were the better fighter. However..."

The floor beneath the Doctor suddenly inclined, and he stumbled backwards until his back slapped against the smooth walls of the prison. 

"You always did fight dirty."

In one smooth movement, the Master was right in front of him.

"I've become _very_ good with this thing, Doctor."

The room shrank until it was only big enough for the two of them, stood almost nose to nose. The Doctor looked at him levelly.

"What do you want?"

"The same thing I always want, Doctor. Death, destruction, warfare, domination... hmm, should have gone with another D-word. The alliteration would have been nice."

The Doctor grabbed his shoulders, and the Master stepped back. The room shifted, and they tumbled over one another, down an incline, until they rolled up against a wall with the Master on top, smirking down at the Doctor. 

"I'll find a way out," the Doctor said. "I always do."

The room shrank around them again. There was no way for the Doctor to get up without forcing the Master backwards, and he lacked the leverage. The Master's weight on top of him was heavy, slightly warm. It reminded him of things he would rather have forgotten.

"Go on, Doctor," the Master said. "Distract me."

He felt the Master reaching into his mind, trying to toy with him, and resisted. 

"No."

"Oh, I do love it when you say no. Say it again."

"Stop it!" the Doctor snapped. "Tell me what you're doing."

The Master pursed his lips in a moue of amusement. "At the moment I'm trying to seduce you, but if you'd prefer I were blowing up planets, that can be arranged."

There was a lurch in the Doctor's stomach. It wasn't like the Master to be focused entirely on him. There had to be a countdown or a red button or a plan for domination somewhere. It could never just be about the two of them. It never was. Perhaps at one time it had been, centuries ago, when they'd been young.

"It's never just about me," he said, suspicious. "It's always about making me watch you destroy something."

"What if this time I want to destroy _you_?"

"You've tried that before."

The Master rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. "I meant metaphorically, you skinny moron."

"Oh. So you mean... oh. OH. You can't be serious. You mean _that_?"

The Doctor squirmed beneath him, unconvincingly incredulous. His lip curled a little in distaste. Clearly he'd forgotten the finer points of vaguely human anatomy.

"Don't be so self-righteous," the Master murmured. "Has it been that long?"

"You don't want to do this."

What the Doctor obviously meant was _I want to do this_. He was good at shielding his mind, but even so, the Master could sense the ambivalence, the interest, the conflict. That was what he wanted. It wouldn't be any fun if the Doctor didn't want it at least a little. Likewise, it would be even less fun if the Doctor wanted it without reservation. It was that struggle that interested the Master. It was that difficult mixture of emotions that turned him on. He leaned down to breathe across the Doctor's lips, and he went still. 

"For old time's sake?" the Master teased. "Surely you remember it."

The Doctor said nothing, only turned his head to the side and did his best to look conflicted. It left his long neck exposed, and the Master took the opportunity to brush his lips over the freckled skin.

"You've never had freckles before," he murmured. "Have you?"

Still the Doctor said nothing, but his throat worked as he swallowed. It made the Master want to bite at it, leave marks on the pale skin. He resisted the urge. He didn't want to give the Doctor what he wanted, what he expected. It was far more torturous this way. The Doctor would hate himself so much more if he did this of his own volition.

"It would be so easy," the Master went on, purring. "We could call each other by the old names."

"That's not who I am anymore."

"Isn't it? The lonely boy? The one whose hand I held? The one whose body I held? Do you remember when it was just us? You and me against the universe?"

He lowered his voice and whispered the name he hadn't spoken in ages, a dead name in a dead language. The Doctor shuddered.

"Please."

"Please what?" The Master brushed his lips over the Doctor's jaw and watched dark lashes flutter in response. The Doctor was steeling himself. No doubt he expected violence and force. The Master had no intention of giving him the satisfaction. "Are you asking me to stop? Or are you asking me not to stop?"

"Master..."

The Master breathed in through his nose and sighed. "I love it when you say my name that way."

He lowered his head and kissed the Doctor, tenderly, almost sweetly. The Doctor's lips didn't move, though his eyelids lowered as he watched. The Master brushed his lips across the Doctor's mouth, and he savagely suppressed the urge to smile as the Doctor's head almost imperceptibly tilted to follow the movement. Their lips met, pressed, and the Master left just enough room between them for the Doctor to continue the kiss. The Doctor lay there beneath him, still.

The room shifted again, spun, until now the Master lay beneath the Doctor. He lifted his hips slightly, just enough for the hardness in his trousers to press against the Doctor's thigh. His hands slid up inside the Doctor's jacket. 

"What's at stake?" the Doctor whispered. "Who's going to die if I don't do this?"

His face was set in the brittle mask he wore when he was about to do something stupidly heroic. The thought made the Master snort.

"You can believe whatever you like, Doctor. Make something up. Imagine the fate of worlds hinging on this tryst, if it makes you feel better about wanting it."

The Master breathed in and out, his hands moving over the Doctor's clothed-- for now-- body.

"And you _do_ want it," he breathed. "You want _me_. You can have me any way you like; does that suit you? Every depraved thing you've ever wanted to do, every fantasy you've ever had, Doctor. _Anything_."

There was a quiet moan which might have been one of despair. The Master tipped his chin up and kissed the Doctor again. The Doctor's lips moved, and for a moment the Master thought he'd given over, but the Doctor whispered.

"I won't."

"Oh, but you will."

For another moment, the Master simply lay there, his fingertips brushing the fabric of the Doctor's shirt. He wanted to rend it, tear it from those stupid striped trousers and pop all of the buttons off-- _bite_ them off. But the point of it all was not to simply take what he wanted. The object was to make the Doctor give it. The room darkened until it was pitch black. Again the Master breathed over the Doctor's lips and waited. In the darkness, there was only the sound of their breathing and the quiet rhythm of their hearts. The rustle of fabric against fabric, and the press of the Doctor's chest to his. The erection in the Master's trousers pushing against the resistance of the Doctor's body. An endless moment that he could have marked by making himself aware of the seconds as they silently ticked by. Instead the Master let the moment grow, and as they passed over the event horizon and the Doctor's lips hesitantly pressed against his, he thought of time dilation, the extension of a point in time through the immense gravitational pull of another body. The Master let his head fall back and smiled into the kiss.

The two of them breathed out as one, and the next time the Doctor kissed him, he slipped his tongue between his lips to press it against his own. They warmed, wrapping around each other. The Master groaned at the nudge of the Doctor's hardening cock and rocked up against him. Gently, gently, letting the Doctor take things forward. He made himself be pliant, giving up to the Doctor's desire and stoking it with every movement. The Doctor caught his lip between his teeth, and the Master groaned. It was better than he could have imagined. The same, but different from what they'd had before, different times in different bodies. Each new regeneration an exploration. The Doctor's lithe body pushed him down and rubbed against him, taller than he was but slender, deceptively strong. The Master dearly hoped that he'd pin his wrists.

Something in the Master gave way as the Doctor's kissing intensified. He let out a quiet sound of his own, not the least bit embarrassed at letting himself enjoy it. The Doctor's newest mouth was mobile, lips and tongue and teeth all apparently constructed just for kissing. The Master wondered how they'd feel around his cock and groaned again at the thought. He waited. For another long immeasurable span, the Doctor only kissed him and rubbed against him, and the Master wondered if that was all he would get. Then he felt the Doctor's hand at the button of his trousers, pulling and opening, and he moaned louder as a cool, long-fingered hand closed around his cock.

"Yes..." he whispered.

"Shut up."

He smiled into the Doctor's mouth. "No."

The Doctor paused. For a moment the Master was certain that he'd stop, pull away, refuse to give him anything else. He unzipped the Doctor's fly and slipped his hand inside to stroke. The Doctor trembled like a dam brought to bursting and then moaned into his mouth. Before the Master could even think to feel smug, he felt the Doctor pulling off his clothes in the darkness. They stripped each other down, popping seams and buttons. He had known, on some level, that it could never be something quick, with clothes still on. Ages ago, in past lives, they had never been content to settle for anything but utter oblivion. The Master could still remember his conviction, centuries ago, that the force of their sex would kill them both, and they would regenerate into new bodies mid-coitus, still screaming each others' names. He still wished for it.

Bare skin, a naked body pressed against the Master's, and their breathing quickened as their cocks rubbed against each other, against each others' stomachs, sweet friction that the Master had been craving. But not enough. Never enough. He could sense the need now from the Doctor, he'd let his guard down just enough to sense the madness and the lust that was still there, as hot as ever. Another Doctor in another lifetime would have spoken to him, would have poured obscenities into his ear in sixteen different languages. He would have expected this one to do the same, but he was silent. Obstinate. The Master had yet to really break him. Time enough for that.

Amid the tangle of shed clothing, the Master's hand searched. Something clutched it, the Doctor's hand, and rifled the mess of discarded clothes until it came up with a bottle. The Doctor took it from him in the blackness, and for a moment the Master's hearts stuttered at the thought that he might toss it aside. He gasped and thought, _yes make it hurt_ , and his mind came up against a wall. The Doctor had locked him out again. It would have been fitting for the Doctor to torture him as he'd done. Fitting to tie him up and make him bleed and ache and burn and then to blow him away with pleasure.

The wetness was surprising, closing around his cock and then moving down to penetrate his body. He could feel the Doctor watching him, though it was too dark to see. It was the sensation of it, as the Doctor had to be able to sense him watching back. He could imagine the Doctor's face, hardened in concentration, as one finger and then a second slipped into his arse and pressed him from the inside. The Master tried to think of the last time, the very last time they had touched each other. Had it been like this? Dark, to be sure; it was always dark between them. Their combined desire threatened to spawn black holes. The Master could feel it inside, an aching void that only his Doctor could fill, and even then not all the way, never completely. He waited, breathless. His hearts thumped against his ribcage, four beats. The Doctor was waiting. He was sensible, a presence just outside the Master's mental space, and the Master reached for him. He queried.

"Ask."

He didn't understand. His body was moving ahead of him, eager for what came next. It took a push from the Doctor, a psychic nudge, to make it clearer. _Ask me_. The Doctor wanted him to ask. It was almost quaint. He smiled in the dark and spoke rather than thinking.

"Please, Doctor, fuck me."

"Don't mock me."

The Doctor's voice was a low growl. The Master shivered. He adjusted his tone accordingly.

"Please, Doctor. Please. I'll beg if you want."

Surrender. The Doctor wanted him to surrender control-- impossible, since they were locked in a room in his own TARDIS, and for all rights and purposes, the Doctor was his prisoner. But it had never been about the reality of things for them. It had always been about escape, about retreating into their bodies from the hard facts of the universe. They had done it at the Academy, and they had done it too many times after that to count. The Master ran his tongue over his teeth. He couldn't deceive the Doctor. Not here in this prison with only darkness between them.

Anything you want. Anything.

He realised after the thought was out, after the Doctor had responded instantly, that it wasn't his body that the Doctor was asking for. It wasn't his mind. He curled his lip. It was a trick. The Doctor had always been full of tricks, the Master's equal in sexual chicanery. He'd been cruel before, leaving the Master wanting. The Master had done it to him in turn. Deprivation was as much a part of their sex as fucking was, oh but it was so hard to let that go. The thought that the Doctor might not sate him made him want to scream and claw at the Doctor's freckled skin. He could deal with physical pain; he had seen his share. He could take sexual violence; they'd done that, been to the edge, and come back. What made him want to hiss and writhe was the knowledge of what he couldn't take, what the Doctor had tricked him into laying bare: the Doctor leaving. The uncertainty of whether or not the Doctor would return to resume their game. If he let the Doctor go now, gave him the chance to leave, they might never be in this position again. And yet, the Master realised with a surge of hatred that there was no other way. The Doctor's will was stronger, it always had been. He had always been the weaker one, the impatient one. The Doctor could wait eternally. The Master had lost.

The door to the prison slid open, the rectangle of light far too bright for the Master's darkness-accustomed eyes. He buried his face in the Doctor's bare shoulder and resisted the urge to bite as hard as he could. _Go then_. He could have snarled the words, except his mouth refused to form them. He felt the Doctor shift. He clenched his jaw against it. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the Doctor looking over his shoulder. The Doctor turned his head to look down at him. In the contrast of light and darkness, his face was impossible to see, and yet the Master imagined his eyes staring down at him.

"I hate you," he hissed.

"Close the door."

It slid shut. The Master lay beneath the Doctor, beaten, naked, and scowled. The black hole that had been pulling the Doctor in was now simply a void. It exploded into fire as the Doctor pushed into him, and he screamed. His voice was silent, only a gasp, but the Doctor heard him nonetheless. His mouth covered the Master's, kissed him deeply as he penetrated him, and now the Master understood. He wanted to make it bloody, to bite the lips that mouthed at his throat and moved back up to thrust a tongue into his still-open mouth. He wanted to tear the Doctor apart, but it was his own body that felt torn. The pain was expected. The pain was glorious, but the real hurt had been in the trick. The Doctor had made him surrender, and only then had he given him what he wanted. It was just like him.

The Master satisfied himself with digging his fingers into the Doctor's shoulders until he was certain they bled. He wanted blood, he wanted destruction, but more than that he wanted to come. The Doctor's hand stroked him too gently. His mouth was seeking, his tongue pressing, but there was no trace of urgency. Now that he had gotten what he wanted, the Doctor was going to make him wait. The Doctor had no intention of fucking him, the Master realised with horror. The Doctor wanted something they hadn't had in centuries. The Master felt it reaching out to him.

"No..." he whispered.

The Doctor gasped. In the darkness, he pressed his forehead to the Master's. His body slowed until it was nearly still, his hips rocking in the faintest rhythm possible. It was worse than if he'd stopped. The Master wanted pain, he wanted aching and stinging. He moaned in mingled frustration and pleasure. He tried to squeeze the Doctor with his thighs, force him into faster and harder. The Doctor only kissed him with an appalling tenderness. He moved lower, pressing them together with the Master's aching cock in between. The change in friction made the Master groan, and the walls of the chamber flickered with dim light. They lay now on the floor, flat. The Doctor's cock pushed into him in a new way, and the Master arched his back, his brow furrowed. _Not fair!_

He realised too late what the Doctor was doing, breaking him down the hard way, refusing to give him what he wanted and making him come despite it. His hold on the room weakened. It was too much, fury at the Doctor and lust for the Doctor, and the Master felt control slipping away from him. It was what he hated most. 

He was certain he'd been screaming, but he heard the Doctor whisper. It was a quiet sound in his ear as the Doctor let his head drop, a breathy _ah_ that he felt and heard. The sound stuttered and became a word. _Koschei_.

"No," the Master growled.

The Doctor whispered it again and thrust deeper, still gentle but pulling him into the vortex along with him. The Master gasped for breath, conscious of the Doctor's tension, the friction between them, the penetration of his own body and the clench of it around the Doctor's cock. If he had to fall, he would take the Doctor with him. He smiled in fierce triumph as the Doctor gasped. Their voices and minds were indistinguishable now, overlapping cries as their bodies seemed to evaporate and condense again. When it came, the Master screamed again, and the Doctor screamed with him. Everything sparked at once and flared, and for a terrible brilliant moment the Master thought he might spontaneously regenerate. Instead his cock throbbed, as the Doctor's did, and he came between them. He felt the Doctor empty himself and groaned as the strength ebbed from his body along with his come.

It was dark again. The Master held onto the room's controls by a thread, too dazed to do anything else. His body was wrecked. There was no strength in his limbs. His head lolled to one side as he stared off into the dimness. He couldn't look at the Doctor. He hated the Doctor. Once again he'd been beaten at his own game, and only the pleasant languor of his body kept him from trying to throttle the bastard. The Doctor breathed in and sighed. His lips pressed against the Master's throat and sent a shiver through his body. He wanted to wind himself around the Doctor and never let him leave, torture him with desire the way the Doctor had done to him. He wanted more. 

"You're going to leave, aren't you," he asked flatly.

The time to use his mind had passed. The question croaked out of his dry throat past his reddened lips. He could sense, if not see, the Doctor watching his mouth. He licked his lips. The Doctor's mouth was close enough that he could have touched it with his tongue.

"I always do. I always run."

The Master breathed in sharply as the Doctor nosed at his cheek. _As if we were lovers_ , he thought acidly. The hollows under his hearts throbbed.

"Coward."

He felt the breathless chuckle in his ear.

"What instead, then? Stay here with you and be your _prisoner_?"

It was the gift of Time Lord language to be able to express the idea of self-deception in speech. The Master dug his fingernails into the Doctor's hips.

"You offered to fight across the stars. Do you remember that?"

"I was wrong."

"You're my enemy."

_My best and greatest enemy_. The Master was grasping at straws now, and he knew it. He could feel the Doctor's pity for him like a damp cloud, could practically see the sad smile on his stupid face. The Doctor, for all his centuries of timeless existence, was as changeable as the phases of moons. The Master couldn't remember a regeneration that didn't contradict itself constantly. 

Time seemed to stop then; it was an illusion, another dilation caused by the gravity of their being. The Doctor sighed.

"Would you stop?"

The Master curled his lip. He wasn't about to be blackmailed.

"Would I _stop_? Don't patronise me."

"If you could torture me for the rest of eternity, would you stop?"

It was the same bargain the Doctor had always tried to strike. The Doctor as the sacrificial lamb, going to the slaughter to save the universe. He hated the softness of the Doctor's voice, the idiotic melancholy of it. He hated the look he knew he would see if he didn't have the room cloaked in darkness. He would have pushed the Doctor aside if it hadn't meant severing the connection that still lingered between them.

"Would _you_? Would you stop needing to save the universe? Would you stop being the Lonely God or the Oncoming Storm just because you'd stopped me? Would you ever be able to stop meddling? Don't bother to answer, I know you wouldn't."

The Doctor sighed.

"We never change, do we?"

"Spare me your platitudes."

They were both aware that neither had moved, both too dependent on the connexion between them to break it just yet. Perhaps if the mass of things was enough, time would dilate indefinitely and stretch the moment out into eternity. The thought was as futile as their propositions. The Doctor waited and then spoke again.

"Are you actually going to let me go?"

"I've gotten what I wanted."

It wasn't an answer, but the Doctor didn't press. He hesitated, still half-inside the Master's aching cooling body. He still had hope, the Master realised with a wrench. He would always have hope. Fool. The Doctor's lips pressed against his and startled him into kissing back. Then the Doctor was up, somehow finding his clothes in the blackness. The room was too cold now. It was undignified to lie naked on the floor anyway, so the Master stood up. The door slid open, flooding the room with light, and the Doctor paused with his jacket draped over one arm. In the light, his silhouetted hair stood stupidly on end. He looked over his shoulder. The Master crossed his arms and stood there, if only to let him have one last look. The Doctor straightened his tie and disappeared into the light. The Master stood in darkness.


End file.
